


at the quiet of dawn

by kinpika



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A quiet moment during Inquisition, Falling a little more in love, M/M, Santa Age 2017, Sharing breakfast, Zevran POV, every day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 16:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13127112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: Next time.There would be a next time, there always was. Frey drinks from the bottle deeply, and the sun greets the mountains once more.Secret Santa gift for:crashed-down-in-a-hurricane





	at the quiet of dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crashed-down-in-a-hurricane@tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=crashed-down-in-a-hurricane%40tumblr).



> technically first day marks the beginning of the year... but as i read more about frey and zevran and just how much crashed down spent time working on frey alone, with all their amazing art, i fell a bit in love haha. i hope i did frey justice!

It had been the rustling of covers that had woke Zevran, no matter how silent Frey had tried to be. An old habit, one that would simply never leave him. Yet that was not his concern for the moment, being taken from quite the pleasant hold that was sleep. It was how Frey, in his single-mindedness, dressed himself, and slipped out the door. Not a word, not even an effort to throw the covers back over him. Zevran smiled, a curve of lips as he listened, to footsteps that weren’t even there in the first place, simply fade away.

A head start is what he gave Frey. A handful of minutes to let him reach his destination, and for Zevran to be tasked with scouring battlements in search. Whether or not Frey realised he was playing such a game didn’t quite matter. What mattered was Zevran dressed, tied his laces, righted his coat, and set off on his course. Frigid air hit him as he opened the door, and Andraste’s tits, he would never get used to the cold.

First task, was to swing by the kitchen. No one would ever know he pocketed two apples, a loaf of freshly baked bread and a bottle of orange juice, freshly squeezed. Perhaps the Inquisitor may realise that his breakfast had just been lifted, but Zevran was already halfway up the first set of stairs and not a servant was any wiser. It was almost too easy, and had it not been for a glimpse of Frey disappear around a corner, Zevran would have gone back for more.

But a small question of: “where are you off to?” leaves him, and he continues forward, food safely stowed in pockets, bottle tucked under his arm.

And so he travelled for some time, a steady pace, always just behind what he knew to be Frey. What his dear warden was up to, Zevran could not rightly say. It was not the first time he had found Frey to simply be wandering in Skyhold, while a few matters had to be attended to. Zevran’s business with the Inquisition was nearly at an end, and then they would be free once more.

Yet, it fascinated Zevran so, that he would always wind up finding Frey along the easternmost battlement, way up the top of the tower. Whatever he was looking at, Zevran did not see. Or, it was a matter of he was not sure if he was privy to. A technicality of terms Zevran was not going to consider before the sun had completely broken through the mountains.

Purposely slow, purposely loud, he climbed the ladder up. No doubt, Frey would hear him. They would exchange small talk once more. Silence would follow, the sun would rise and it would be back to business — _ah_ , a hand appeared as he approached the top. Zevran takes it, allowing himself to be pulled clear of any danger, and the corners of his mouth lift once more.

“May I interest you in a light breakfast?” he says, a flourish of his hand, as he produces apples and bread from his coat, bottle of juice placed precariously on the edge. 

Perhaps it was the first smile of the day from Frey, never quite the last, and Zevran felt his heart swell a little. Always a little more than it’s usual swollen feeling, whenever Frey simply existed in his orbit. At the first _crunch_ of teeth meeting apple, Zevran remembers to break his bread in half, chowing down while it was still warm. Perhaps he should’ve taken some spread; he made a note for next time.

_Next time_. There would be a next time, there always was. Frey drinks from the bottle deeply, and the sun greets the mountains once more. 

“Early for you, no?”

Frey finally speaks, voice rumbling from lack of use, a hint towards his quick escape from their bed. “I should say the same to you.”

“I was awoken by the cold. _Someone_ took all the blankets with them as they left.” Zevran nudges him then, an elbow running into a rib. Gains a chuckle from Frey, a sound that was not heard often enough. No need to worry about the Frostback Mountains potentially being the cause of lost appendages due to the cold, when Frey simply had to be _Frey_.

But whatever Zevran suddenly felt, he couldn’t help the “wha?” as Frey plucked his apple from his hand, immediately biting into it.

Zevran reached for it, and Frey all but dances out of his grasp, a one-two sidestep accompanied by more of the apple being eaten. Andraste’s tits, he knew he should’ve just taken the whole bag of apples, as his fingers catch the front of Frey, only for material to be replaced with air. Never could he get between the man and his love for apples, it seemed. It would continue to be the scandal for the ages.

Eventually, they catch each other in a corner, their dance at an end. The apple was gone, core thrown over the edge towards a valley they would not know. Zevran huffed, the only admission of _something_ he couldn’t quite put his finger on, as Frey leaned in, forehead resting against forehead. Quiet.

Zevran lets his eyes close, lets himself smile. Lets his hands rest against a waist so familiar, lets the world go. For one whole minute, Zevran can feel Frey standing against him, standing with him, strong and hard and _alive_ under his hands. Zevran doesn’t know where he might have been, had it not been for this man, and he doesn’t care to think about it. 

Slowly, that’s how Frey swallows. Such a loud and apparent noise, even if they were both as quiet as mice. A roll of the tongue, forming words. “Happy First Day,” Frey says, but 'says' is too strong a word, Zevran thinks, for how small his sentence was. A whisper, lost to the wind that travelled through the battlements, to Skyhold, waking all around them. A blaze of red and orange and yellow flows across the sky, a hand extending to reach a destination, but instead just perhaps being one way to represent how much Zevran  _felt_. Not even the Maker Himself could pull Zevran away from this man, no Blight, no war, no world. 

“Of another year,” Zevran answers, like he had every year before, and would continue to do until the end of time itself.

Frey smiles, the toothy sort of smile that Zevran treasured, and he could feel himself reflect that face back. They embrace, a hug that wasn’t going to end, they kiss, so tenderly and sweetly,

 

And then they knock the bottle of juice off the edge.


End file.
